Free The Book of Bones by Natasha Narayan

Isaac’s candle flame showed us nothing, just empty rooms, barred and bolted with mortice and tenon locks. The smell was dank, disgusting—of ordure and something fleshily decaying.
    â€œProbably the pens where they keep livestock,” Waldo said.
    There were an awful lot of these empty pens. We walked past one after another, iron cages with wire-mesh walls and doors. Some of them had iron hooks embedded in the walls, which I guessed were for tethering cattle. The floors had been hosed clean, but here and there was still a bit of straw or a dark spot—dried blood, I guessed. They were gruesome things, these cages. I felt sick that I could have eaten animals kept in these conditions.
    â€œI’m definitely off meat for now,” Rachel murmured. “What do you call those people who only eat carrots and things?”
    â€œVegetarians,” said Isaac, his voice sounding sick and muffled.
    â€œI’m turning vegetarian.”
    â€œMe too,” I said, hurriedly pushing onward. Finally, thank goodness, we were past the cages and into something else. This was a huge cargo hold full of cases and boxes stacked in careful order. Here was something far more cheerful. Bottles of Champagne marked “Oudinot” and over there dozens upon dozens of boxes of potted meats—mustard, calves-foot jelly and pale ale. Every dainty that the homesick imperialist could crave. In another section were stout oak boxes, banded and locked with bronze clasps.
    â€œCan you open one of those?” I asked Isaac. “They look important.”
    He had already bent down and was fiddling away with his bits of wire. The lock clicked open. I seized it and Waldo yanked open the container. Not easy, as it was heavy. Inside was a puzzling sight: the chest was subdivided into numerous partitions, each of which contained a ball the size of an apple, wrapped in fine material. The balls gave off a pungent, sickly sweet smell.
    â€œMothballs?” Rachel burst out. “Why do they lock up their mothballs? They aren’t made of gold.”
    I didn’t answer, although I already knew. Judging from Waldo and Isaac’s sudden silence, they too had guessed what the chests contained.
    â€œCome on. Nothing important,” I said, backing awayfrom the chest. “Lock it back up, Isaac. Let’s get out of here.”
    But Rachel let out a little gasp and I knew she had guessed. “I know what it is,” she said, her voice steady. “You don’t have to protect me. It’s opium from India—smuggled for all those poor Chinese who are addicted to it.”
    Waldo had put his hands in his pockets and stood slouching. “Girls,” he said, adopting a lordly tone, “you have to understand something.”
    â€œWhat?” I snapped.
    â€œThis is business. Pure business. Opium is sold to the Chinese because they want it. We do nothing wrong in trading freely in it, for we receive tea in return. Opium is a huge business worth millions of pounds a year. Some say it is the biggest contributor to the Empire’s coffers. Many of our merchant princes made their fortunes in it.”
    â€œIt brings such misery,” Rachel said quietly. “I’ve heard people sicken on it. Lose interest in all work and suchlike—and can die within a few years.”
    â€œIt is the Chinaman’s choice after all. If a fool chooses to take poison, you cannot blame the man who sold it to him,” Waldo declared.
    This was true enough. But somehow I didn’t feel easy as we left that place, walking back through the great empty pens. Waldo may have talked with such confidence about the benefits to trade of opium, butI don’t think he had made the full connection. Now I finally understood the purpose of this steamer. It wasn’t merely to ship luxuries for the gentleman of the Orient. It wasn’t just to provide the great merchants of Dent and Son and Jardine Matheson with duck